One Thing Forever True
by HPontmercy
Summary: Kurt, an effeminate young man in provincial France, just wants to be loved.  Blaine, a tyrannical prince, is incapable of loving anyone but himself.  When Kurt stumbles upon Blaine's castle in the woods, both of them are changed forever.  Disney  Rated T.
1. PrologueThe Beast

**Welcome to One Thing Forever True chapter one. This is a story of Klaine origins, but it takes place in the Disney's Beauty and the Beast realm. This is not a fantasy, but may be horribly anachronistic. Bear with me.**

**I've tried to keep this note short.**

**Be open-minded, read and review if you can! Love you all.**

**~H**

The young prince gazed into the dancing flames, the fireplace reflected in his amber eyes.

Alone in his vast library, surrounded by unread books in their jackets, gathering dust, Blaine Anderson sat, reclined, in a plush armchair.

He preferred the solitude of the library to the usual bustle of the rest of his palace. He preferred to stay alone. But even when surrounded by his doting servants, the young prince may as well have been by himself. He was attractive, and could have his choice of women, but any that he would have dared approach would have found him exceedingly vain. Intelligent and tutored from an early age, he spoke several languages, including French and German. But isolated, unapproachable, and thoroughly distant, the young royal seemed to many as though he was incapable of socializing.

He spent his nights isolated in the West Wing, refusing to let anyone disturb him. He distanced himself from the servants of his castle, and barely bothered to learn most of their names. His ill temper and cruel disposition caused them to fear him, but their devotion to his great-uncle, the king, caused them to diligently go about their jobs, though the young prince was vile to everyone.

Many wondered if his cold heart could ever love.

On this frigid night, as the prince stared forlornly into space, a knock came at the door. Few of the prince's servants would dare to disturb the man in his study, but for Nicholas Cogsworth, a trusted servant and personal confidant.

"Come in," intoned the prince, uninterested, but annoyed at being torn from his reverie. A slim young Englishman entered the room, eyes lowered and hidden by a fringe of unruly dark hair. Cogsworth approached the back of his master's chair tentatively, for angering the prince was not a sin easily atoned for. "Yes?" the prince implored, not bothering to stand and face the man behind him.

"Master," began the manservant. He cleared his throat before continuing. "There's a woman at the palace door. Cogsworth became at once very interested in the ceiling, though not much else could be seen in the dim lighting.

The prince sat up, a spark of dark anxiety crossing his chiseled features. "What?"

"A... A woman, master. She... She is looking for a place to say."

"Well, tell her she has no business here." Blaine sank back into his armchair, already done with the subject. He again became preoccupied with the flames, the only illumination in the dark study.

The butler protested. "But sir-" Blaine would not hear it.

"Send her away," he demanded. The man's tone was riddled with ice.

Cogsworth gulped and opened his mouth, aiming to further protest, but decided against it. He backed out of the chamber much in the manner he had entered it. The heavy door swung shut, thudding as it closed, leaving the anxious servant in the hallway. He closed his eyes, drew a breath to steady himself, and set toward the foyer, ashamed at what he was about to do.

~oOo~

The woman stood in the gleaming foyer, swaying slightly as her vapid eyes surveyed her posh surroundings. She looked out of place in the palace entryway, clad in a torn chemise, her limp hair hanging about her thin shoulders, around which hung a tattered shawl. It was impossible to discern the woman's age, as her look of despair and the lines that folded her narrow face shrouded any youthfulness she may have once possessed. At one time, she may have been beautiful, but the only thing of beauty to grace her tragic frame was the magnificent birdcage she clutched in her bony fingers. In it sat a yellow bird, looking less than healthy but still brilliantly plumed.

As she struggled to remain standing, she would whisper weak pleas of "shelter..." in her quiet French. The bird seemed to echo her, faintly chirping at intervals from its cage.

As the woman teetered, the air in the foyer buzzed with nervous energy. The assembled servants had sent Cogsworth to talk to the prince, as he was the least likely to be fired for impertinence. They knew the prince would not take kindly to the idea of a beggar in his palace. So they waited, unable-or perhaps unwilling-to help the poor woman.

It was all Mrs. Hudson could do to keep from reaching out to the poor maiden. The castle cook was a mother figure to all, though her only son was the stable boy, Finn. She was fiercely protective of him, as his father had been murdered before the boy was born, and refused to let her son associate with the spoiled, tyrannical prince, who was the same age. Her late husband was a friend of the young prince's father, who had, upon his friend's passing, offered his widow a job as his servant.

She cared for everyone, and seeing the distressed young woman before her nearly broke her heart.

She was just about to step towards the wraith-like figure, when footsteps sounded through he silent entryway. Cogsworth had returned.

"You," he said, indicating the woman. She stared at him, pleading with her glassy eyes. Cogsworth faltered, and then continued. "The master said you could not stay here," he said. The woman gasped.

_Thud._

Mrs. Hudson threw a hand to her mouth and rushed forward to assist the woman, now slumped on the cool gray stone floor. The bird cage clattered as it rolled, positioning itself at the feet of Jeffrey Lumiere, the maître d' of the palace. He picked it up gently, cooing softly to the frantic bird.

"Yes, yes now... Ssh, there you go," he said, poking a finger through the wires to stroke the creature's wing.

Everyone else's attention was turned to the unconscious girl. Yvette, the maid, was fretting. "Oh, whatever shall we do?" she questioned, tugging her curls. "The master shall be outraged eef he finds out!"

Cogsworth was frozen. He could not simply leave the girl out in the cold, but... His conscience won out, and he knelt to help Mrs. Hudson, who was checking for a pulse. Upon finding an albeit slow one, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Get my son, Nicholas, since you're not doing anything. We need to get her upstairs." Lumiere obliged, and ran out into the night.

~oOo~

Finn Hudson was in the stable, stroking his favorite horse, Celeste. He spent most of his time there; no one else seemed to care about the creatures. He found them beautiful. He had grown up around them, and they had become his only friends. He had been the only child on the castle grounds, except, of course, for the rotten prince. Tall, handsome, and exceptionally well-mannered, Finn was the perfect antithesis to the short-tempered, self-centered young royal. Had he been given the chance to present himself to the world, he would have had hordes of ladies throwing themselves at him at every turn. Instead, the only women in his life were his mother, Yvette, and of course the horses, especially Celeste.

Finn breathed in the rich smell of Luna's silky auburn coat. He was at peace, alone but for himself and the beasts, and content. He leaned against the mare's strong neck, but was startled when he felt her tense.

"Luna, what's wrong?" he asked, laying a hand on her nose.

The horse's ears pricked, alert to the sound of approaching footsteps.

Finn heard it too.

A few moments later Lumiere burst in the door. Finn looked up, startled, as the man approached him in an air of urgency. "You need to come now," the older man panted, "to the palace." The open stable door threw slats of cold light across the stable floor, illuminating the quiet stalls. Wind filled the building as Lumiere flew in, hair mussed and cheeks flushed.

"What is it?" asked a dubious Finn. It was not like Lumiere to look so flustered. He was generally relaxed, unlike his English counterpart, Cogsworth. This change in attitude concerned Finn.

"There's a woman-" Still huffing, Lumiere approached Finn, who was still stroking Celeste. She reared, uncomfortable as the slim maître d' walked towards her. Lumiere stopped advancing and continued.

"-unconscious. In the foyer." He breathed heavily, interrupting himself. "We need your help to carry her to the guest's quarters." Finn looked down as he laid a strong hand again on Luna's neck, to calm the agitated horse, which was shaking. She was acting the way that he felt. "But," he added, timid. "The master cannot know." After a beat, Finn looked up.

"Is she all right?" He asked, gravelly voice devoid of emotion. Finn kept his eyes cast downwards, towards the rusty stable floor. His heart was racing as he wondered what was going on.

"Yes-well- We need your help! You're the only man strong enough to help us lift her." Lumiere rang his hands, eyes hopeful. If anything happened to this woman, it was bound to be his fault. He was flamboyant and absent-minded, and often became the palace scapegoat. Surely Cogsworth, though Lumiere considered him a dear friend, would find a way to pin the blame on him.

Finn bent down and whispered in his horse's ear, then stood. "I'm coming." He led Celeste back to her stall. She whinnied as Finn left the stable.

It will be okay, Celeste. He hoped so.

~oOo~

Mrs. Hudson bent low over the now-peacefully sleeping woman, dabbing a damp cloth on her forehead. She really is a pretty young thing, thought the cook as she wetted the cloth a second time. A shame she's come to this. Shaking her head, the older woman brushed a few stray blonde hairs away from the wretch's sleeping face. It was true. Beneath the layers of dirt, the beggar woman could be recognised as once a fine beauty.

Mrs. Hudson wondered what dreadful events had brought the poor girl to this shameful state. The mother in her wanted to take the girl in, save her from the life she was living in the cold night air, but common sense told her it was impossible. The master of the castle, who was barely kind enough to keep Mrs. Hudson herself employed, would never allow it. He had not been willing to let her stay for even a night.

Cold hearted scum, she thought, traitorously. The vain, conceited, boy. She sighed. There was nothing she could do, except care for the girl for one night. The servant's quarters were shoddy and drafty, illuminated only by the single flame of a dying candle. Mrs. Hudson had collected as many blankets as she could, but the poor girl still shivered in her sleep.

As she sat with the unconscious maiden, became distracted by the beautiful bird the woman had brought with her. Obviously a rare, exotic creature, the bird was further proof the beggar had fallen from grace. Occasionally it would chirp feebly from its cage, but it would not sing.

The bird kept Mrs. Hudson company for some time, with its chirping and preening, but it eventually fell silent. After a short time, Mrs. Hudson joined it in slumber.

Soon, though, her tumultuous dreams were cruelly interrupted.

"What is this?" the roaring shout came from the doorway. Mrs. Hudson shrieked as the castle's master descended upon the sleeping beggar woman, eyes full of mad fire. "I told you not to let her in here."

"But, but master-" the woman stammered, "She fainted-"

"Fainted?" the teenage noble questioned, coldly. "Those gypsies will do anything to get in. She plans to rob me blind!"

"M-master, she's ill, can't we show-"

"No!" The prince's voice rose. In the bed, the young woman's eyes were beginning to flutter open. "We can't show a tramp compassion." He spat these words, and Mrs. Hudson trembled in fright. She'd seen the spoiled royal angry, but never in a seething rage such as this. "Get out," he hissed. Mrs. Hudson clutched the rag and ran out of the room. Now fully awake, the young woman cowered, pulling the sheets around her barely covered shoulders.

Blaine glowered at her, and she squirmed. Her glassy eyes reflected fear. The bird chirped, petrified in its glistening cage.

The prince looked up. "What is this?"

"It's a bird-" the vagabond gasped. Her voice was soft and husky. "-a canary." She trailed off as Blaine studied the creature; his eyes for once alight with real interest.

Then his head snapped around. "Where did you get it? Who did you steal it from?"

The woman trembled, but managed to eke out, "I didn't steal it-it was my father's."

"LIES!" Again he roared, and the woman began sobbing. "You stole it. And now, you dare ask for shelter, when you intended to rob me blind, didn't you?" He leered at the magnificent bright bird, almost transfixed by its unlikely beauty.

"No-"

"I was kind enough to let you into my palace, but you will not be offered shelter for free. Give me the bird." Blaine seized the top of the cage. The small yellow bird shrieked and ruffled its feathers indignantly. The sole candle by the bed flickered.

"No! I'll-I'll do anything! Pavarotti!" she cried, reaching for her pet.

"He is mine now. And if you don't shut your filthy mouth, I'll have you too!" Blaine lunged toward the girl, throwing the bird's cage to the floor. With a gasp, she flung herself back on the threadbare pillows. She cowered as the muscled young man loomed over her, leering. The lone candle cast eerie lines across his face, which would be handsome were it not for the look of lustful contempt that marred his fine features.

"Please..."

Whimpering and defenseless, the woman found herself faced with no means of escape from the horrid prince. She stared up into his dark amber eyes as he grinned evilly. Casting a terrified glance around the room, she searched for something that could save her from this menace. Then she spied the candle. It seemed to burn brightly, despite its stubbiness, sympathizing with her plight. At last she knew what she had to do.

Swallowing hard, she wrenched her arm free and grasped the candle, forcing it into the face of her violator and causing him to bellow in pain. She watched, horrified, as the malicious prince's curls began to catch. He howled, clutching his face, as the flames marked his features. Batting at the quickly growing flame, he backed off. This allowed the beggar to force him off of her and make her escape. She ran, clothed still in her tattered rags, out of the servants' quarters and back out into the night. As she tore out of the castle, she could still hear the prince's cries.

Soon, the castle's servants-at least, those who were asleep to begin with-began to awaken. They fled to the room in which the prince screamed, now with most of the flames extinguished. Cogsworth ran forward to his master, taking up the bowl of water Mrs. Hudson had left by the girl's bedside. He splashed the liquid in the direction of the howling prince, and the flames that tore at the dark curls fizzed and subsided.

"Aauggghh-" The royal moaned, his hand to his face.

"Master, what happened?" The butler breathed, dumbfounded.

"Iffwasssthejsssspygrrr-" came the anguished sound of the prince's melted voice, When he turned to face his assembled servants, Yvette, who had just come running at the sound of the prince's shouts, fainted.

The entire left side of the young man's face was singed, his hair smoking. The raw flesh oozed. Mrs. Hudson gingerly stepped aside to gather the unconscious maid, as the rest of the servants gaped.

"'It was the gypsy girl,'" Lumiere translated, in his thick accent. He felt no pity for the prince; he could guess what had happened moments before, from the rumpled sheets and discarded birdcage.

The servants tittered. Cogsworth asked, ignoring them, "Master-are you-"

_Thud._

For the second time that dreadful night, someone had fallen unconscious. This time, no one rushed to Blaine's aide. The cook, the maître d', the gardener, and the stable boy stood by, watching their master get what they so long had wished upon him.

The bird watched all this from his magnificent cage, not making any sound-not even the occasional chirp. Pavarotti had fallen silent.

~oOo~

The next morning, Blaine woke up, face bandaged, in his bedroom. Cogsworth and Lumiere stood over him, muttering. Their faces were blurred, and soon the prince realised that his eye was shut and he could not open it.

"FFbbbrrrr," he groaned, finding he could not use his lips well either. The entire left side of his face seemed to be frozen. This concerned him-but then he remembered the activities of the night before.

"Master?" Cogsworth asked. Lumiere left the room, throwing a contemptuous glance over his shoulder at the doting Cogsworth as he did so. "What is it?"

"Tthhbrrr..." Blaine insisted, getting angered. He sat up in bed to make his request more urgent.

"The... bird?" Cogswoth asked, understanding.

"Gddditt." The prince growled, wincing at the pain talking-or trying to-caused him.

"Right away, sir." Cogsworth left the room and went to find the bird, which had found itself in Lumiere's care after what had happened. When Lumiere was told of the prince's request, he only reluctantly removed his fingers from the holes in the bird's cage. He shot Cogsworth a look, but the butler pretended to ignore it as he returned to serve his master.

When he returned with the canary, he placed it at the table at the foot of the young prince's bed, as the prince had indicated by a wave of his hand.

"Nwwwgow," said the prince, and Cogsworth left.

He stepped into the hallway, and promptly discovered a weeping Finn. He asked what was wrong.

"It's Celeste-" he choked, wiping the tears that made tracks on his face. He continued. "The gypsy woman stole her!"

A look of concern crossed Cogsworth's features. Finn was a fragile boy, and much of the castle's staff knew that Celeste was the only living thing he could relate to. He had no idea what to tell the boy. "We can get another horse..." he said, trailing off as a wretched sob escaped the younger man's throat. "Not like Celeste…" he choked.

Cogsworth gingerly placed a hand on Finn's shoulder. "I'm sorry" he murmured. "There, there."

Finn shook away from Cogsworth's hand. "You'll never understand!" Tearing into a new set of tears, Finn took off down the hallway. Cogsworth turned and solemnly went to find Lumiere.

~oOo~

No one could understand. That beautiful girl had stolen Finn's heart—and his best friend. How could he have ever fallen for her golden tresses? The delicate curve of her jaw as she lay unconscious, her hair splayed on the cold marble. He didn't even know her..

Though, somehow, Finn had felt like he did. Though he did not know even her name, he felt as though he shared something with her. And now she was gone. Gone, with his favorite horse. Who could say if Finn would ever see either of them again?

His world had been turned upside down twice in a single night.

~oOo~

"Cogsworth, this time the master has gone too far. How can you stand by him—" Lumiere was cut off.

"Cogsworth, now is it?" Cosworth looked up from the square of floor he'd just been studying. "I remember a time you called me Nicholas."

Lumiere heaved a great sigh. "That was before you began to blindly follow the-" He spat the next word, contempt and sarcasm dripping from his intonation like congealing blood. "_Prince_ blindly in all that he does. You're like a lapdog!" His voice rose in anger.

"A lapdog?" scoffed Cogsworth. "I am loyal to my master."

"Your master! Do you know what he tried to do to that girl?" Cogsworth fell silent for a moment.

"Are you saying that he deserved what he got?" he said after a beat.

"Maybe," sneered Lumiere, "but maybe what he really needs is a butler who will be honest with him, instead of going along with all he says and does and allowing him to ruin his own life like you!"

"Oh, don't even start, old chap. Don't tell me you actually care about someone other than yourself."

Lumiere gaped. "I-I do!"

"Who, then?" asked Cogsworth. "Oh, right. That slutty little girlfriend of yours. What's her name. The maid."

Lumiere shook his head. "Nicholas, I care about you."

Cogsworth froze. After a moment, he regained himself, but was still visibly shaken. His next words were clipped. "Well, then," he said, standing to leave the room. "I guess you haven't done a very good job of showing it."

As his best friend slammed the door behing himself. Lumiere sighed and stared at the floo

~oOo~

And so began life in the castle after "the fire," as the servants called it in whispers. Blaine refused to see anyone but his most trusted Cogsworth, and spent his days propped up in bed, staring at the bird. As he grew better and regained his vision and speech, he mandated that nobody in the castle liaison with anyone outside. The vain prince was ashamed of his looks, as the burns had scarred horribly, and was willing to close himself off from the world in order to keep them from being seen. He regarded himself a monster.

Tensions between the servants, who were unused to being in such close quarters all the time woth thsose they considered their friends. It seemed as if the prince's evil had begun to affect everyone he touched. He himself became even more cold-hearted than before.

Many whispered that only love could ever save him-but who could love a monster?

* * *

><p><strong>If I haven't introduced myself, I'm H, aka Bimbette, (played a Silly Girl in the musical, which is where the title lyrics are from) and I am your narrator. Bear with me, read and review!<strong>

**I.L.U**

**-H**


	2. Every Day Like The One Before

**This is Chapter 2.**

**That, for once, is all I have to say.**

**Disclaimer A: Don't own Glee. Don't own Beauty and the Beast. Except for on DVD and VHS, respectively.**

**Disclaimer B: There is someone else out there writing Beauty and the Beast Klaine. Actually several someones, but one I know of in continuum that my beautiful cousinbuddybeta FARKLESPARKLEify mentioned when I brought up my idea to her. I have total respect, and do not plagiarize. Any similarities will be purely coincidental, and odd because while she is imposing BatB themes on the Gleeverse, I am placing the characters in 18th century France.**

**Okay, chapter one starts fairly fillerificaly. Ssshhh. No hate. And I don't speak French. Yet.**

**Here we go! xoxo my sillies!**

**~~H!**

It was a day like any other. The sunlight sifted through the rustling leaves, illuminating the path to town and making the laughing stream appear as though glowing. The birds called, composing sonnets and symphonies to each other from their perches in the treetops of the thick French forest.

Kurt sang too, a wordless, nameless, tune of his own creation, seeming to mimic the chirps of the songbirds. His high, clear voice rang through the woods, echoing down into the valley below, where the town was coming to life. Shopkeepers and beggars, merchants and whores were all waking up to another day, a day just as any other.

Kurt Hummel was headed to town to pick up the usual supplies and food, as well as medicine for his ailing father, Burt. He also hoped to return the book he had borrowed from the town's kind, elderly bookseller, a frail man who rarely saw business from the town's citizens. Kurt was his only customer, but not a paying one. Burt, in his condition, was incapable of earning money and Kurt's job as the baker's assistant did not pay particularly well.

Monsieur Shuester, the bookseller, was kind enough to allow Kurt to borrow books. He refused to accept any payment Kurt tried to give him. As much as it annoyed Kurt to be seen as something to be pitied, it was far better treatment than he received from the rest of the town. And, it thrilled him to have someone understand his love of books.

His mother had died of a sudden illness when he was eight years old. An only child, Kurt had been forced since then to grow up motherless. He had been very close to her, and her death affected him deeply. But he was forced to grow up, to grieve and move on, as the loss of his mother had sent his father on a downward spiral. Since she died, he had become depressed and reclusive. The once-brilliant inventor had fallen from grace, from his position as one of the foremost scientific minds of Parisian society. Now he was an addled recluse, barely capable of functioning at all in everyday life,, much less formulating the innovative ideas that had established his status as a brilliant scientific mind. He relied on his young son for everything.

Kurt loved his father, but mourned the loss of his childhood almost more than the loss of his mother.

Books were his one escape from the dismal reality of his life, but they were a luxury. Kurt had been taught to read at an early age, but most people in the village were too poor to afford books, so they barely bothered to try. As a result, Kurt was ostracized. The townsfolk criticized his "high class ways," claiming he wandered around with his nose in a book just to spite the poor, uneducated citizens. They resented him.

Little did they know, his aloofness was only because they pushed him away.

The men in the village were primarily focused on machismo-soaked braggadocio, boasting of record kills or how many girls they had taken to bed. Their sons grew up wanting to be the same way, Kurt, shy and, to an extent, effeminate, wanted nothing to do with any of it. From an early age, he had denied interest in the things other boys were discovering. He hated to fight, preferring to solve conflicts with words instead of his untrained fists. When the other boys chased girls through the streets in childhood, he had chosen instead to befriend them, namely a quiet Negro girl named Mercedes.

The village boys, led by David Karofsky, bullied him relentlessly, calling him a mama's boy and shoving him, trying to provoke the anger he held inside.

His father didn't realize the problem, and told Kurt to be a man. His mother, however, saw what was happening, and would comfort her son, telling him he was perfect just the way he was. Her death devastated young Kurt, He had lost his protector.

As he grew older, instead of growing out of what everyone who knew him said would likely be a phase, he became even more shy and withdrawn. Instead of finding pity for him, his tormentors just took the opportunity to harass him more.

Eventually, however, most of the boys who had terrorized him had abandoned their childish ways. It had come to a point where they could no longer get to Kurt. He shrugged off the assaults. He'd become less of an attraction over time, but people still muttered about him and pointed when they thought he wasn't looking. He pretended it didn't hurt.

He came to dread going to the village.

As he approached the small town, he stopped singing; he didn't want to give anyone-namely, Karofsky-a reason to harass him. He was determined to have a good day. Burt was surprisingly lucid, and Kurt had woken to the clamor of him tinkering with some long-forgotten contraption. He seemed happy, for once, with what he was doing. Kurt was happy too.

Smoke was billowing from the chimneys of newly stoked fireplaces, and laundry was flapping in the early morning breeze.

As he crossed the narrow footbridge across the stream that surrounded the town, he could see that people were already bustling about, halfheartedly greeting each other with hollow "_Bonjour_"s as they went about their business.

The outskirts of town were dotted with small shacks, fields, and thin livestock. Women with coarse hands herded small children who whined and played, ignoring their exasperated mothers. Kurt waved and greeted each farmer and vagabond he passed with a warm "_Ca va_?" but never received an answer. The disinterested glares turned at him were all Kurt needed to tell what they thought of him.

Clutching his book tightly to his chest, he continued to walk until he reached the bustling market square. The village was alive here, vendors hawking their wares from every corner, frazzled mothers haggling for lower prices as they bounced pink babies on their hips. Kurt slid through the lively crowd largely unnoticed, bumping occasionally into a harried villager who would shoot him a look of disgust before turning away. His rushed apologies fell upon deaf ears.

Avoiding eye contact with the various townsfolk who he encountered, Kurt tore himself away from the raucous crowd and slipped into a narrow side-street. At the end of it was a dusty storefront, bearing a sign that read "_Schuester's Librairie_". As he approached the shop, Kurt passed the sordid establishment known as the Maison De Lunes, a lunatic asylum owned by the sinister Arthur D'Arque. Screams and shouts from the patients could be heard. Kurt shuddered as he walked by, repulsed. At least he reached the end of the alley, and approached the bookstore, with its dusty façade and dim windows. He pushed open the heavy door and blinked in the shop's dim lighting. He coughed a bit at the dust as he entered, peering around for the shop's proprietor.

"Monsieur Schuester?" He asked tentatively. The man was nowhere to be seen. As Kurt's eyes adjusted the light, all he could see were shelves upon shelves, stacks upon stacks of books. A globe teetered precariously on a stack of volumes, and dust danced in the illumination the pitted windows provided.

"Kurt? _Mon jeune ami_?" From the back room came a voice, wizened with age. The door creaked open to reveal an elderly man, leaning on a cane, arms laden with hardcover volumes. Kurt rushed to his aid, taking the stack and placing it on a nearby table. "Oh, thank you, my boy," said the man as he straightened the stack. "What brings you here?"

"I've come to return the book I borrowed," said Kurt as he held out the tome in question. Mr. Schuester took it, adjusting his glasses.

He chuckled. "Finished already?"

Kurt blushed. It had taken him less than a day to finish it. "Oh, I couldn't put it down!" he gushed. Monsieur Schuester smiled at his best—and only—customer. "Got anything new?"

The bookseller chuckled. "Not since yesterday!" For a moment, Kurt looked crestfallen. He had read nearly every book in the store: romances, adventures, political rhetoric. His favorites were the ones with smart, strong heroines who saved the day and found love. One in particular was his favorite.

"I'll borrow…" Kurt trailed off as he strode to the shelf, ran a slim hand along the spines of the dusty volumes. His fingers came to rest on the familiar tome, and he pried it from its place on the crowded shelf. "…This one."

He held up his selection for the bookseller to see. Monsieur Shuester blinked through his thick glasses, examining the cover's faded gilt. "But you've read it twice!"

Kurt grinned sheepishly. "Oh, but it's my favorite!" His voice rose as he began to explain. "Far off places, daring swordfights, magic spells… a prince in disguise!"

Monsieur Shuester said nothing of Kurt's enthusiasm, but gave a knowing smile. "Well, son, if you like it all that much, it's yours."

Kurt gasped. He couldn't possibly accept the book, after Monsieur Schuester had been so kind in letting him borrow books free of charge. "But sir-"

The elderly man placed a kand on Kurt's shoulder, looking him square in the eyes. "I insist."

Flabbergasted, Kurt stammered a reply. "Why-Why thank you! Thank you very much!" Clutching the generous gift to his chest, he continued to thank the bookseller profusely as he left the store.

Nose already buried in his book, Kurt ducked out into the alley, but did not get far. As he stepped out into the busy square, he collided with someone almost instantly. "Pardon," he muttered, not looking up from his book. He stepped to the left to avoid the person he'd hit, but was stopped by someone grabbing his arm. He stopped abruptly, looking up from his book.

He froze when he saw who had intercepted him.

"D-David! _Bonjour_!" He stared into the wide face of his regular tormentor, who leered down at him in contempt. His servant, Azimio, stood behind him, glowering. "_Excusez-moi_… I-I must be going…" He made a motion to duck out of Karofsky's grasp, but could not break the stronger man's grip. Azimio took hold of Kurt's other arm.

"What's this, Hummel?" Karofsky sneered, tugging Kurt's book from under his arm.

"Hey! Give that-"

"How can you stomach this?" Karofsky flipped through the novel, looking forcibly disinterested. "It has no pictures!" Kurt could feel his face flush bright red, as he struggled against the holds of his tormentors.

Karofsky dangled the novel in front of Kurt's face, which caused Kurt to strain harder, but he could not free himself. "What are you doing! Let me go!" he cried. "David!"

"What, want your precious book back?" The well-muscled, cold-hearted man taunted. He took hold of a page. Kurt closed his eyes as he heard the paper start to tear.

"Give it back," he begged. Tears sprang to his eyes.

"Say please," Intoned Karofsky, tearing the page further. Azimio tightened his grip on Kurt's arm.

"Please." He pleaded, "Please give it back." His voice was barely a whisper.

"Let him go, Azimio," Karofsky finally relented, but his voice was hard. Kurt fell forward as he was released. Karofsky threw the book, page still, amazingly, partially intact, to the cobblestones in front of Kurt. Kurt stayed on his knees as Karofsky and Azimio left him, laughing mirthfully. From his position on the ground, he could hear their heavy retreating footsteps.

Breathing hard, he got to his feet, and then looked around to make sure the thugs had gone. He picked up the book and examined it. Several of the pages were torn and crumpled, and the cover was dusted with grime from the cobblestones.

Kurt took the damaged book in both of his hands. A single tear splashed on the cover, leaving a small wet stain. With a sob, Kurt sank to the ground.

~oOo~

**Why, yes, I did blantantly steal dialogue from the Disney movie. **

**Reviews? There will be more I swear. This was an intro, and I plan to write longer chapters. Stay tuned. LOVE YOU ALL**

**~~H**


	3. No Man In Town Half As Manly

**AN: okay, A) I need a name for this village. and B) It is really awkward writing this 18th century France story with modern American names. Just sayin'.**

**And I guess I have a tumblr, it's a personal one, but you can contact me, I guess… I used hpontmercy for it so if I make one for my fanfiction it will be something else…**

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><p>I now give you Chapter 2.<p>

"-and the look on his little porcelain face! Priceless!" Mirthless laughter filled the pub as Karofsky flung the door open. He sauntered up to the bar, Azimio grinning smugly beside him. Each head in the dingy establishment turned as the bulky young men entered, pushing their way through the slovenly drunken crowd. Karofsky took his usual seat at the bar—after Azimio had pushed away the poor sap who until very recently had been seated there—and with a loquacious wink at the barmaid, demanded tow mugs of ale.

"Merci, Mademoiselle," said Karofsky with a smirk as the lithe young maiden filled the order. She was blushing, shaking furiously as she fumbled with the mugs, flattered and terrified to be addressed in such a way by the most sought-after man in the village, and its most prolific hunter.

Karofsky tossed down his francs, leaving a sizable tip for the girl. An easy grin splitting his heavy features, he took a large gulp of the amber liquid—and almost immediately thereafter began to cough and wretch. "What is this bile?" he demanded, slamming the mug to the bar. "Don't I deserve the best?"

The poor woman suddenly became very serious. She trembled head to dainty foot as she took back the mugs from Karofsky and his counterpart. "Of course, sir… my apologies-"

While she busied herself in the back, looking for a better brew, Karofksy and Azimio continued their (largely one-sided) conversation. "That little freak… Thinks he's so much better than all of us with his stupid book and his snooty airs… One of these days I'll show that—that girl!"Karofsky ranted in this vein for some time, and the rest of the bar's patrons, once engrossed in the antics of their idol, eventually lost interest. When the barmaid finally handed him a mug, he barely nodded, downing it rapidly, before continuing. "Why, I'd like to—here he stopped, spitting into his tankard with pointed gusto. Satisfied, he placed the mug down, leaving a mark on the dusty bar.

Azimio sat silently throughout this, surveying the rest of the pub's patrons with cool disinterest. Most of them sat aimlessly, staring into their drinks, ears pricked to anything that might give them a clue as to how to be like Karofsky. They watched and listened, begging for spare scraps of manhood embedded in his braggadocio.

It was like this wherever Dave Karofsky went. The son of a successful merchant, he had grown up with his every whim indulged. His merciless harassment of other village children had gone largely unnoticed by doting adults, most of who dared not to insult young David's powerful father. As he grew into young adulthood, his playground taunting became cruel insults and escalated to physical violence. No one dared cross Karofsky as he grew older. He was simply too terrifying.

It didn't hurt that he was very attractive, either. The portrait of classical masculinity, Dave Karofsky had a strong jaw, bulging muscles, and thick chestnut hair. He was the object of affection of every girl in town. Since he was such a successful hunter as well, for every maiden that would die to be his wife was a man who would kill to be as successful.

Everyone listen to Dave Karofsky. Rich, powerful, and extremely popluar, he was the most feared man in town, almost revered as a god by "the common folk," as he called them behind their collective back.

Every woman wanted him, every man wanted to be him.

Still, he was not happy.

"Master,"Azimio prodded. The door to the bar swung open, and in strode three beautiful women: Santana, Brittany, and Rebecca: the town's most notorious women of ill-repute. As they walked, in every man in the joint looked up, transfixed by the sweet smell of woman suddenly permeating the alcoholic smog of the pub.

They worked nights in a brothel owned by a commanding, mannish woman known as Sue Sylvester. Though they had many men who paid to be with them, each girl's only goal was to ensnare Karofsky. They followed him wherever he went, but still he barely acknowledged them. No one understood why he did not instantly jump at the opportunity, for all three of them were gorgeous.

Brittany was tall and fair, with long, sweeping blonde hair that swished behind her as she walked. Most of the men she seduced were intimidated by her height and her tendency not to speak. It was likely a good thing that she rarely opened her painted mouth, however, for what she had in looks she lacked in intelligence.

An exotic beauty with sensuous curves and raven tresses, Spanish-born Santana was the image of a temptress. Her full lips and brilliant grin often enthralled men, but the cruel wit to escape her perfect mouth left them broken. To her, men were nothing but toys, their affection only a game to play by her own rules. She was the unofficial leader of her small group of whores, as she exuded confidence with every fine step and toss of her dark mane.

Rounding out the group was Rebecca, a homely girl who despite her physical shortcomings still managed to be sufficiently attractive. She was smart and fairly pretty, but a childhood accident had impaired her vision and coordination. Still, she had a number of suitors—most of whom were merely settling for what they could afford if not Santana or Brittany. It seemed Sue, a hard-hearted woman to anyone else, had taken the young girl under her wing, adopting her as a sort of lackey.

Together, though they worked in the desperate, hushed trade of prostitution, the trio made up the most lusted-after women in the village. Karofksy would have been an easy catch for any of them, even Rebecca, but he never showed any interest. Still, they fought relentlessly amongst themselves over who, when he finally relented, who be the one to finally take him to bed.

"David," cooed Santana, striding toward the bar. Every face was staring as she made her way to Karofsky's barstool. The married men shamelessly drooled as she wafted past, eyes hungry. Brittany and Rebecca followed close behind, noses in the air. The barmaid looked away, turning crimson as she busied herself with a rag.

Karofsky looked up just as the maid looked down, wondering what had incited this change. He stopped as he noticed Santana standing over him.

"Why, Mademoiselle," he said, paling. "What a... pleasant-surprise." Obviously he lied, as his face was a mask of indifference as she sidled over and held out her slender hand. Karofsky took it, nervous, and brought it to his lips.

Santana tossed her glossy black hair over her shoulder, laughing. She loved having this sort of control over the most feared man in town. Even David Karofsky was putty in her hands. The pub was silent, watching as she worked her black magic.

"I know," she said, her voice a wink, "Imagine meeting you here." She gestured flippantly around the dingy pub, knowing well that this was the man's favorite haunt.

"Imagine…" Karofsky said weakly, avoiding her dark gaze. Brittany and Rebecca snickered from their station behind Santana.

"So, I heard you had a record kill last week," purred Santana, though this meant nothing to her. She had heard some men talk about it, jealousy underlining their voices, the night before at the brothel, and chose to bring it up as a way to entice Karofsky into conversation.

"Yes-" Karofsky cleared his throat. "Yes, I… it was the biggest rack I've…" Here he stopped, now painfully aware of the carefully placed set of breasts in front of his face. Santana smirked, her laughter a mirthless bell in the sordid establishment.

"Oh, David, I'd love to see it," she said, as Rebecca and Brittany found themselves rocked by fresh peals of giggles. "Why don't I come over—tonight?"

"Tonight?" The nervous, embarrassed hunter flushed. "Well, maybe some other time…" he sputtered. Santana's eyes narrowed—how could Karofsky have turned down such a blatant proposition?—but she continued to torture him with her gaze.

"Some other time?"

"Sure." Karofsky gulped and Santana stuck up her nose, seething.

"Fine." She turned to her lackeys. "Come on girls." _One of these days I'll have that man, and he'll know a real woman…_ Santana thought as she stalked away, dejected.

When they had left, Azimio turned to his master. The entire bar was buzzing about what had just happened. "How could you turn her down? Playin' hard to get, eh?" Karofsky shook his head and stared into his mug. "You must be mad!"

"She's not the one that I want," Karofsky muttered, eyes still averted. The buzz began to subside as the pub patrons gave up straining to hear Karofsky's conversation. Slowly the effects of the women's presence wore away and all that was left was the audible moan of the shattered dreams of old men.

"Brittany then?" inquired Azimio. "My, she's a beauty as well."

"No."

"Rebecca? Why—surely you could do better… Why, I can't imagine you'd fancy her."

"None of them."

"But—"

"Shut up." Azimio was silenced by his, but only for a moment. Then he suggested, "What about the barm-"

"Shut up!"

Karofsky's voice was a low growl as he looked up from his mug to glare at his companion.

Azimio backed away and turned to his own drink. "Whatever you say, mate."

Karofsky, angered, stood up and left. Azimio looked up as if to follow, but decided against it. Karofsky was in a mood. And it was not wise to cross him.

~oOo~

"Papa, what are you doing?" Kurt asked, laughing nervously as he entered his home. Burt, wearing an enormous pair of goggles, was seated in the middle of the sun-strewn floor, surrounded by loose pieces of various unfinished contraptions. The comically balding man didn't notice his son walk in, as he was intently tinkering with something small and shiny that made a funny clicking sound as he toyed with it. Kurt approached him gingerly, hoping not to upset his contented-looking father.

"Her, Papa," he said softly, holding out a hand. "Let me help you clean this up—"

"Not now, Elizabeth!" Can't you see I'm busy?" Kurt stepped back. His face fell.

"Father," he urged, "It's me, Kurt."

"—Go watch your son! …oh, Kurt…" Burt blinked up at his son through the magnificent goggles that seemed to magnify his cloudy eyes. After a moment, the fog in his gaze seemed to clear as his memories flooded back. The corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly as he replied,"Of course, of course...Did you get the—"

Kurt held up the basket he had been carrying on his arm. "It's right here," he said, referring to the bread he had gotten a discount on.

"What about—"

"Papa, I got them. Don't worry." Also nestled in the basket were four eggs, small ad brown. They had been a bargain.

"Very good, very good—have you seen the dog-legged clencher?" Kurt had no idea what this meant, but bent to look for it amidst the other things on the floor. After a moment, his eyes fell upon a srange-looking tool that to his eyes looked to be exactly a "dog-legged clencher."

"You mean this?" he asked, holding it up for his father to see.

"Yes, that. Now I…" Burt trailed off, mumbling, and turned back to his 'work,' once again distracted. Kurt sighed, set the basket down and the table, and, taking his newly acquired book with him, started upstairs. He took the narrow staircase to the room he called his, and closed the door.

Glaincing around the familiar space, Kurt could not help but imagine it as something—well, more grand. Kurt saw the room in his mind with luxurious carpets, tapestries, and candles—a chamber deserved by a royal. All the heroines in his books lived in palaces like the one he wanted for himself, had been whisked away to a perfect life by some handsome prince. He knew that he would never have that—a prince, a castle.

But was it so wrong that that's what he wanted?

Either way, he knew that he did not have it as bad as he could. Burt had been successful, and he and Kurt had enough money to survive. The cottage Kurt and Burt resided in was far nicer than the decrepit shacks occupied by many villaers. Still, things were becoming tight. Kurt could not afford to support his reading habit, and was already forced to accept such generosity from Mssr. Shuester. He had also been forced to pick up a job at the bakery to support himself and his invalid father. Luckily, Mr. Evans was kind enough to let him take home the day's leftover bread.

Kurt hated having to rely on others. It killed him every time someone took pity on him. The Hummels were proud people, strong and defiant. Determined. With things the way they were, however, Kurt often had to swallow his pride.

Kurt shook his head at his own thoughts. The Hummels lived a comfortable life, an anonymous life, a life free of disruption. That was all he could ever ask for.

Slowly, Kurt stepped over to his bed. He set his book down and lay back, staring at the blank ceiling. After a few moments of pondering, he pulled it out and began to read.

Reading was Kurt's way of coping. It always helped him distance himself from reality, especially on a day as vile as this one, after teh morning's eents. . After Karofsky had left him in the alley, Kurt had had only a few moments to colect himself before he had to run to work. He had been late, but ever-kind Mr. Evans had overlooked his tardiness. perhaps the man took pity on Kurt after seeing his dirty clothing and mussed hair, or perhaps he knew that Kurt was a far harder worker than his own son, Sam. Either way, the rest of the day had been fairly routine.

Kurt had show up for work, and immediately been required to take care of some baguettes that Sam had neglected. Kurt did so without complaint, for he did not want to put his friend's reputation in jeopardy. Sam had likely been off somewhere with Mercedes, a black girl who the otherwise-kind Mr. Evans did not approve of. The two had been involved in a tryst for some time. Mercedes was Kurt's best friend, and as much as he wasnted not to, he liked Sam. So he diligently kept the lovers' secret.

The rest of the day ws not so bad, if not exceptionally brilliant. It waas simply tolerable. Throughout his work, all Kurt could think about was coming home to the book, the book Mssr. Schuester had so kindly give him, that Karofsky had all but destroyed.

Now that he had begun to read, all of Kurt's problems seemed to melt, leaving his mind clear.

For a moment, the world was alright.

~oOo~

Karofsky stormed down the street. As ususal, he failed to aknowledge the "Hey!"s and hollers of people he ran into. Karofsky was furious.

There was something about that little loser that just made his head feel as though it was about to explode. _Kurt Hummel_-the bane of Karofsky's existence.

Karofsky couldn't explain what it was that kept him from leaving Kurt alone-the feeling that despite Karofsky's hatred made him seek out Kurt. He told himself it was just the need to terrorize the smaller boy, to make him hurt, to see him cry. But Karofsky wasn't so sure.

There was something in the way Hummel was so distant-like a puzzle Karofsky had to crack. He was always so cool, so level-headed. Even from the time the boys were young, Karofsky already showing signs of the cruel, manipulative creature he would prove to be, Kurt was always so mature. Nothing Karofsky ever did or said seemed to get to Kurt, and this drove him mad.

Kurt drove Karofsky mad, adn he was furious about it.

As he made his way through the-slowly dissipating-crowds of people in the market square, Karofsky made up his mind. He would finally get to Kurt. He had the perfect plan.

~oOo~

the nock came at the door, quietly at first. Kurt didn't notice. He was at his favorite part of the the book, where the heroine discovers that her prince was beside her all along, in disguise. He knew the lines by heart, and was mouthing them to himself as the knock came again, stronger.

Kurt halted, setting the book down. "Papa?" he asked.

"May I come in?" Burt sounded nervous.

"Of course!" Burt pushed the door open, and Kurt stood. Before him was his father with a look on his face unlike any Kurt had known him to make in years. His eyes were sad, and deep with an understanding all but missing in the last several years. "Father?" Kurt asked, softly.

"Burt walked gingerly to the bed and gestured for Kurt to sit down with him. "Son, I..." A small, uncomfortable silence filled the even smaller room, as Burt struggled to find the words he had lost for so long. "I know times have been rough. I ... I haven't been the best father."

"Papa, you've been a wondeful father," Kurt insisted. He lied, however, for though he loved his father, the man had not been the most attentive parent since Kurt's mother had died. Kurt knew it was not Burt's fault; he had not been himself since the death of his wife. Yet, he still resented the loss of a major portion of his childhood.

Burt must have sensed this, since he sighed before continuing. "Kurt, I'm sorry. I've been... lost. And you have been such a good son." Tears welled up in burt's newly clear eyes. For once he seemed to be feeling what he was saying. Kurt was thrilled, but dubious. Many times before, Burt had seemed to be lucid and then had relapsed to his foggy state, his few minutes of clarity again embraced by mist.

"Papa..."

"I'm proud of you son," Burt choked. Kurt blinked, not sure how to respond. Never had such words come from his father. It was always, "Fetch this, will you, lad?" or "Take it like a man, son. You want people to think you're a sissy?" before Burt again slipped into mindlessness. But this time, Burt's gaze was sincere. After a moment, tears sprang to Kurt's eyes.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really." Burt put an arm around his son's slender shoulder. "You're growing up to be a brilliant young man." Kurt grinned through his happy tears. Burt grinned also, for what seemed to be the first time in a long time. Suddenly though, Burt grew serious. "I won't always, be around, you know, son, and you're going to need to find a little woman-"

"Papa!" Kurt exclaimed, nearly laughing. "Papa, I-" he dared not say that he did not, did in fact never want the company of a woman, but instead said, "Papa, I'm young still! I don't need to marry yet!"

Burt chuckled, but concern was laced across his features. "I know, but... you need someone for the timesthat I'm-not there."Another silence followed. Kurt's mind raced. How could he tell his father, who had so few good days as it was, that he was a freak? It would break the poor man's heart. Burt sensed Kurt was uncomfortable, though unaware of why, and changed the subject.

"Kurt, did you see that contraption I was working on earlier?" Kurt nodded, but he had no idea what the thing was.

"Well, there's set to be a fair soon, on the other side of that forest... In the next town over-What's it called?"

Kurt answered, then said, "Wait, papa, do you plan on entering?"

"Of course! This invention is sure to be groundbreaking!"

"But that's a two-day journey-by foot!-and I don't think you're ready for it."

"I appreciate your concern," Burt said, "but really, I'm ready. Besides," he added, "I'll take Rachel." Rachel was the Hummels' horse, a small, spirited animal with a flowing dark mane and an uneven temper. She was difficult to ride, and even if one could win her trust, she tired easily. Rachel had been Elizabeth's horse, and no one had been able to ride Rachel since her passing. Besides, Burt hadn't ridden in years, and Rachel hadn't been ridden in just as long.

"Papa-"

"Kurt, I can do this." Kurt sighed, doubtful. "I think I can win. And if I do," he stopped, laying a hand on Kurt's shoulder, "you won't have to work so hard.

"Is the prize really worth it?" Kurt asked, incredulously. His father wasn't well, and this was not a good idea.

"Son, I want to do this. I _have _to do this. Please."

"But-"

Blaine cut him off. "It will only be a few days, Kurt. I'll be fine."

Kurt looked down, contemplating. Finally he looked into his father's eyes. "Alright. Just be safe."

"Thank you son." Abrubptly, Burt got up to leave.

"Wait, when do you have to leave?" Kurt inquired, as he stood up after his father.

"Now." Burt said this, and left the room. Kurt followed him.

"Wait!" Burt turned around, only to be surprised by Kurt flinging his arms around his waist.

"Whoa, hoho," chuckled Burt, but there was something serious in the way he looked fondly upon his son. "Kurt, it'll just be a week."

"I know," Kurt said into his father's shoulder. "Just be careful."

"I love you," Burt said, blinking a tear from the corner of his eye.

"I love you too."

~oOo~

The boots on the pavement were loud as gunshots. Karofsky noticed this, and it made him even angrier, and more persistent. He would've liked to shoot Hummel. Ever since the previous day, making teh twerp hurt was all he could think about.

Karofsky knew that about this time, Kurt would be leaving his job at the bakery, where he worked with that kid with the huge mouth. Any minute now, Kurt would walk out of that door, and...

~oOo~

"So, I'll see you tomorrow?" Sam asked, as he and Kurt walked out of the back door of the bakery.

Kurt laughed, a shimmering, bell-like sound, and replied, "Only if you're not too busy with your girlfriend to show up for work!"

Sam punched Kurt's arm jokingly. Kurt's wince was imperceptible, so Sam simply laughed and walked away. "_Au revoir!_"

Kurt smiled and turned the other direction. He had begun humming to himself, when all at once, he was jumped from behind.

he tried to shout, to Sam, to anyone, but a large handhad been clapped over his mouth. He could smell the scent of beer, hide, adn gunpowder that belonged to Dave Karofsky. He struggled, kicking and writhing in the large man's grasp, until Karofsky finally let him down, sending him to the dusty ground. Kurt spat, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of sweat that had permeated it.

"Turn around, and get up." Karofsky growled behind Kurt.

"David," Kurt whimpered.

"I said, _get up_." Kur did as he was told, and got to his feet gingerly, turning to face his attacker. He was surprised to see Karofsky ws alone.

"What do you want?" he asked, his shaking voice defiant.

"I want you to face me like a man."

Kurt gaped. Karofsky was easily twice his size. Karofsky noticed this hesitation and sneered.

"What? You're not man enough to take me?" Karofsky's cruel, flat tone sent fingers of ice down Kurt's spine. He stood, rooted to the spot, for several moments before stuttering his response.

"Karofsky-I am a man."

"Oh." Karofsky cocked an eyebrow.

"I am more a man than you, David." Kurt gulped, amazed at his own courage.

"Then why don't you provtout?" Karofsky's eyes were black chips, his face a mask of stone.

Kurts voice was now level. I don't need to fight and intimidate to prove that I'm a man, David," he said. "If anyone isn't a man, that's you."

A prominent vein in Karofsky's thick neck bulged in fury. The ensuing silence between Kurt and Karofsky was broken only by the sound of the larger man's labored, furious breathing. What seemed to Kurt like an eternity passed, before Karofsky finally spoke in a voice that was not his own. "I am not a man," he said, and grabbed Kurt's neck. Kurt tensed, thinking he would be strangled. But what came next surprised him greatly: he was being kissed by Dave Karofsky.

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><p><strong>I typed the last bit in my iPod, which autocorrect "Karofsky" to "Karofsky's". Thus a weird typo. And "bedford?" How the hack did I spell "before"? But I fixed it. .)<strong>

**Love you all, my author tumblr is .com. Give me at least one follower, a'ight? xo**


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